St Matthew’s Street Station. A Basse-Lag Christmas Tale.

The latest Tower RampartWorker was rubbish, thought Merk. On the front-page was the news that sales of the paper had been “brilliant” at a Unite the Unite Meeting, and that three Cactae/Cacti had joined. He turned to Travailleur Hebdo. In thick print they denounced the ‘Ramp’ Central Committee’s “bureaucratic centralism” and the formation of the 214th ‘Democratic Opposition’ to the CC. Comrade Dream-Weaver Alex’s predictions of permanent revolution in New Ipswich came in for some stick.

Merk had no more time to look through the left press. It was the Yule Eve. He had three days off from his job tending the Sphagnum Moss Garden on top of the Waterfront University. There was an illegal bottle of cold Vodka, but no truffles, in the fridge….

Outcast Oliphant-people grew the tubers just outside the City. They brought them to the market to sell, by stalls offering pungent curry-wurst, kaki fruit, and piles of ruby-olives. He would have to go there as soon as possible.

The route from Merk’s flat passed by the HQ of Mayor Benedict the 2nd.Twenty stories high the lower floors were decked in video-posters of the Municipal Chief and his Deputy, Andrew ‘Coco’. They read, The Community Program Makes Free! In the narrow road a gang of the unemployed was cleaning the pavement with tooth brushes. A small child was watching them, clearly terrified.

On the Corn Hill there were no traders. A rally was taking place. On the steps of the old City Hall the leader of the Progressive English Patriots, a Remade with a twisted mouth cut out of a large pumpkin head, was holding forth. He caught only a few lines. “The Malignant Cult of the Absent Without Leave – AWL …” he ranted, lips covered with spittle. “I scorn their pathetic minions…” “We need a Wall, an anti-Fascist Wall, to stave off …” So this was the New Man!

Merk would have laughed. But on the edges of the tiny audience hovered, menacingly, the Patriots’ Allies, the Green Shorts militia of Lord George ‘Gallows’ Spode.

At 15 o’clock there was still time to get the fungi. It was too expensive to take a sky-taxi and the Montgolfière was too slow. Yet St Matthew’s Street Station was not far away. It would take him to directly to the Oliphants. The Subway at the Roundabout led to the intersection of the Meridional Line to London, and the Septentrional Line to their Tuddenham settlement. The Moss Gardner bought a cheap return Metro ticket and was soon on the way.

The Underground came to the surface at Westerfield. The train paused at the crossing with the Lowestoft railway to let pass a long succession of Goods Wagons, carrying prisoners to the Kessingland Holiday Camp. The Mayor had ordered a pre-Yule vagrant-sweep of the streets. The Official City Paper, the Ipswich Stella, had said that they were to undergo mentoring and training. Rumours in the last two local pubs where drinks stronger than 3% were permitted were already circulating that another batch of undesirables were to be ‘remade’. The groans from the rail carriages did not indicate much enthusiasm at this prospect.

Merk alighted at the village. The Oliphant Greenhouses were stacked along the side of the Finn Valley, gleaming in the winter sun. There was no sign of anybody selling their produce. He would have walked into the market gardens. But warning against this were notices saying, “Private Property. Trespassers will be Eradicated.”

How could he get the truffles? Obviously, one could ask a villager. In front was the Holy Lamb Inn, where caffeine free espresso, soda drinks and warm real ale (not more than 1%!)” were for sale. From the whooping sounds and ‘Praise the Lords’ there must be a prayer meeting going in inside. Merk was registered under the new ‘religious registration law’ as a non-believer. He would not approach the Tavern.

While pondering this somebody came out of the Lamb. He was grey, tallish and wore unusually heavy spectacles, but all that Merk registered was that he had a large snake coiled around him, and he was uttering “I am Healed” It was hard not to recognise Vek, the Holy Roller, who had stood on the Benedict Slate for the last election and had finally won Gippeswick Ward after 20 years of standing. Vek cried out, “The Lord’s a-comin’, it’s the Rapture!”

It was at this moment that the heavens split asunder and the Interplanetary Revolutionary Communist-Marxist Federation sent down its ships to liberate the City of Ipswich….

Document original received in Rendlesham Forest Sunday 19th of December 2012.

Very well written Andrew, and I’m sure it’s a brilliant pastiche of something but I’m afraid most of it went over my head (though like Roger I “got” Spode). I will use Google, but a few clues wouldn’t come amiss…

PS Obviously I “got” the political allusions; it’s the literary one(s?) that passed me by.

Then Merk’s Spectre, like a hoar-frost and a mildew, wondered through Ipswich, Saying: ‘I ’m a Marxist, what do I care? I am a progressive, I am left! Am I not Marx and Engels, who preach progressive politics to Man, Who calls for war and revolution? and my two wings, Division and Class Envy?
Where is that Friend of Sinners, that Rebel against my Laws, Who blogs Belief to the Nations and a future where capitalism rules? Come hither into the desert of my ideology and turn these stones to bread! In belief I am vain! I still believe after Marx has failed, And crave a World of Fantasy upon my great Abyss, A World of ideological theory that only works in theory but never in practice.

Merk went to the Tory Blue Lion
And saw what he’d never believed,
People praising Margaret Thatcher
And shouting God Save the Queen

And the TUC office was shut
With “Vote Conservative” writ on the door
So he drank ale in the Vaults
And spoke of Marx like in days of yore.

He saw it was filled with capitalists
Where socialists once would be
And minions with blue rosettes were persuading the rest,
And binding with briars the lefts joys and desires.

They were celebrating the birthday of the bane of the left as had become the yearly custom throughout Albion. Vek came in the Vaults shouting “Hail the Great One! Hail Margaret Thatcher! Happy 130th birthday Maggie!” For she had lived to be 130 constantly invigorated by the left being annoyed at her longevity. The Ipswich Socialists favourite blogger cried out, “Socialism is dead! Arise shine, for your light has come!”

Kev, I can’t reply on your blog because the Suffolk Tory Internet system doesn’t let me do this.

I will however say that this is a completely stupid idea that strikes against the oppressed working and non-working masses of King’s Avenue, St Helen’s Street, Grange Road, Spring Road, Grove Lane and Oxford Road.

The children being taken to school along this road will be particularly affected by this foul blow by international motor capitalism and its Ipswich imperialist lackies in the so-called ‘Labour’ Party.

We await the first accident.

You can quote me on that.

I realise my relations with the person who originally dreamt up this crackpot notion will not prosper…